


All the Fault of the Kitchen Boy

by Lefaym



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lowly kitchen boy unwittingly sets events in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Fault of the Kitchen Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alba17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alba17/gifts).



> Thanks to misswinterhill on LJ for the beta.

It was all the fault of the kitchen boy, really.

Well, maybe _fault_ wasn't exactly the right word for it. In fact, when he thought about it later, Merlin realised that he should thank the boy. He didn't actually do it in person, because that would have looked daft, and Arthur would have laughed at him, but still—it was a shame, Merlin thought, if the boy never had an inkling of what he'd started when he'd broken the straps holding the barrels of ale to the merchant's cart.

Merlin had been folding Arthur's doublets when they'd heard the ruckus that had caused both of them to rush to the window. When his ears were assaulted by a loud high-pitched yell and the sound of breaking timber—not to mention the heavy slosh of liquid—his first thought was that they were under attack from some strange magical beast, and as he dashed across the room, Merlin began running through the list of spells he'd memorised lately, wondering if any could be of use. He felt like a right fool, of course, when he actually reached the window, two steps behind Arthur, and saw what had really happened.

At least Arthur would never know what he'd been thinking. Merlin would have worse to worry about than feeling the fool if Arthur ever discovered _that_.

Fortunately, the scene below them was diverting enough that Merlin soon forgot about his private embarrassment. It was rather amusing, after all, to watch Helga, the head cook, screeching as the kitchen boy ran and hid inside a small alcove just outside the courtyard. Nothing like a little bit of harmless chaos to liven things up a bit.

Merlin was so caught up in all the drama that he didn't even notice what he was doing with his extremities until—

"Merlin—is that your hand on my back?"

Merlin froze. "Um—no," he said quickly. Except that that wasn't quite true. "I mean—well, yes, it is my hand, but—well, I didn't _mean_ to—"

This was not going well. Merlin could feel himself blushing, and worse, he knew that Arthur, whose head was turned towards him now, could see it very clearly. And his hand was _still_ on Arthur's back, he realised—pressed just beneath one of his shoulder-blades. Well, he could do something about that, at least.

As Merlin snapped his hand back to his side, Arthur rolled his eyes. "_Mer_lin."

"What?" said Merlin, trying to look innocent, as though he accidently expressed casual affection towards Arthur every day.

"Did I tell you to remove your hand?"

"Er—no, sire."

"Well then," said Arthur, "put it back."

"_What_?"

Arthur gave a long suffering sigh. "It's quite simple, Merlin. I want you to take your hand, and place it on my back. I would have thought that even _you_ would understand—"

"Yes, yes—right! Of course." Merlin tried to ignore the butterflies that had suddenly decided to dance a rather complicated and highly vigorous jig in his stomach. Slowly, he lifted his hand and placed it against Arthur for a second time; this time, he was completely aware of every movement—and _very_ conscious of how warm Arthur's skin was beneath the thin layer of linen.

"That's better," said Arthur.

Merlin slowly released a breath that he hadn't even realised he was holding, and allowed himself to relax, his tension dissipating so that his forearm, too, came to rest against Arthur's back. He felt Arthur lean back against him slightly, strong and solid. This was... nice. More than nice.

In spite of his newfound relaxation, Merlin felt his heart-rate increase. He wondered, suddenly, what he should do next. After all, Arthur didn't seem to want him to do anything without being told, but then again, he hadn't minded the hand on his back either.

To distract himself from these thoughts, Merlin returned his attention to the courtyard below, but most of the excitement seemed to be over. Helga was storming back to the kitchens, while a servant had started directing the cleanup. Absently, Merlin allowed his hand to run down Arthur's spine, and then back up again.

"Mmmm..."

The soft hum sounded strange coming from Arthur's mouth, but it made Merlin feel bold suddenly. When his hand reached the base of Arthur's spine for the second time, he allowed his fingers to slip beneath Arthur's shirt, bringing them into direct contact with his skin.

The effect on Arthur was immediate. One moment, Merlin was standing at the window, his hand stroking Arthur's skin, and the next moment, he found himself pressed firmly against the wall, Arthur's hands gripping his shoulders, Arthur's lips pressed hotly against his own.

There wasn't any time to actually think about it, and afterwards, Merlin knew that even if he had been able to think right then, he wouldn't have done any differently, because he'd been wanting this for quite a long time anyway. Merlin's lips opened instinctively beneath Arthur's, allowing Arthur's tongue to press forward, messily, but sweetly too.

Somehow, within the space of five minutes—Merlin never quite worked out the mechanics of it—they found themselves pulling each other down onto Arthur's bed. They fell onto the mattress in a graceless tangle of limbs, and began tugging at each other's clothes. Merlin didn't even care when he tore Arthur's breeches, even though he knew he'd have to mend them later.

It was a relief, Merlin found, to discover that in terms of inexperience, he and Arthur were both equals for once. Neither of them quite knew what to do next, or which hand should go where, yet somehow they figured it out, and it didn't really matter if it was awkward and artless, because it was good, too, the way that they used their lips on each other, the feeling of skin against skin. Almost having his eye poked out by Arthur's elbow and a few pulled muscles were more than worth it, Merlin thought.

Everything was going beautifully—Merlin was discovering that he could cause Arthur to make all sorts of interesting noises simply by licking his nipples, and Arthur was doing this _thing_ with his hands, when—

"Arthur!"

Merlin didn't think he'd ever moved so quickly in his life. Of course, moving that fast while Arthur was still trying to hold onto him, while his legs and Arthur's were all still tangled up together, meant that instead of jumping out of bed to hide behind the nearest curtain, Merlin ended up falling instead, his naked skin coming into sharp contact with the cold stone floor. Naturally, Arthur managed to avoid falling with him. _Prat_.

As Merlin gingerly lifted himself into a sitting position, he saw Morgana standing in the doorway, her mouth hanging open.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed again. And then, looking across the bed, she added, "Merlin!"

Arthur, with a surprising amount of dignity, managed to pull a blanket over himself. "Morgana," he said, quite calmly, "didn't you ever learn how to knock?"

At Arthur's haughty tone, Morgana quickly regained her composure. "I _did_ knock," she said, looking down at him. "Apparently you didn't hear me."

"I was busy," Arthur told her, as though he'd been going over his footwork for sword practice.

"So I see." Morgana's eyes met Merlin's briefly, and all at once Merlin wished that he knew a spell that would allow him to sink into the floor. He didn't even care that Arthur and Morgana would find out about his magic. After all, there wouldn't be much Uther could do to him if he melted into a slab of stone.

"Do you suppose you could tell us why you came bursting in here?" Arthur asked.

"Uther sent for you," Morgana replied. "It seems that the ale supplies from Mercia for tonight's feast have been... compromised. And he needs someone to break the news to the King Bayard in a way that _won't_ lead to war breaking out."

Arthur said something under his breath. Merlin didn't quite catch it, but he suspected that it wasn't exactly polite.

"I'll tell him that you'll be along in about twenty minutes, shall I?" Morgana smiled. "I'm sure he'll understand that you need time to finish—er—your inspection of the servants' quarters."

A smile began to creep over Arthur's own face. "Ah, that would be excellent, Morgana. Thank you." His last two words actually sounded quite genuine.

Morgana turned to leave the room, but before she did, she looked back over her shoulder. "Just so you know," she said softly, "I'm very happy for you. I've been wondering how long it would take the two of you to figure things out between you."

And with that, she closed the door behind her.

Merlin swallowed hard. "Well," he said. "That was—er—"

"Merlin." Arthur looked down at him.

"I mean, it could have been worse, I suppose, and at least—"

"_Merlin_."

"Um—yes?" Merlin wished that his brain would allow him to form a coherent sentence.

"We only have twenty minutes. Are you going to spend them babbling on the floor like an idiot, or are you going to climb back onto this bed and pick up where we left off?"

"Ah—bed," said Merlin. "Definitely bed."

"Well, hurry up, then."

Merlin didn't need any more encouragement.

***  
***

Two days later, a yawning kitchen boy climbed up to the loft behind the kitchens, looking forward to the comfort of his sleeping mat. He'd have to sleep on his stomach, of course, because he still hadn't recovered from the strapping that Helga had given him when she'd found him hiding after the ale incident.

All in all, he was feeling rather sorry for himself.

He was so tired, that he almost didn't see the plate that was resting on the small sack of clothes he used as a pillow. When he did see it, however—about two seconds before it would have been too late—his eyes widened, because he'd never before been allowed a whole cherry tart, all to himself. This was the sort of thing that the nobles ate, not kitchen boys.

Beside the tart was a small piece of parchment, with two words written on it—and the boy knew just enough letters to make them out: "_Thank you_."


End file.
